Imprint
by Nyruserra
Summary: There are none so blind as those who would not see…  SF.HG


_Many many thanks to Laurabeth, for her patience and expertise in editing and polishing this for me. She truly is evidence of what a talented beta can do for a story._

And an additional warning: this story is rated 'M', and if I could, it would be qualified as a 'hard' M. There are strong sexual situations ahead, though nothing that actually betrays the non-graphic restrictions of this rating.

Please, you have been given fair and honest warning - don't flame me with complaints if you go ahead, and find something not to your liking.

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**I****mprint**

It was late, and Hermione had to admit she was exhausted, but still she dragged herself from her chair. She had fallen asleep doing research again, an occurrence that was so commonplace she had begun to forget what is was like to sleep in her own bed. The dark library was small and cluttered, but Hermione moved towards the door with familiarity born of too many nights' practice.

Grimmauld Place had been abandoned fairly early on in the war. With the death of Dumbledore, the Fidelius Charm protecting it had dissolved, making it altogether an undesirable place to loiter. Hermione, for one, was not sorry to have seen the last of that dank place, and she certainly didn't miss Mrs. Black's clarion denouncements.

This late, the corridors of Eyre Manor were lit only by the occasional soft glow coming from a handful of portraits scattered along the hall, but she found it to be more than adequate to pick her way to her bed.

She hadn't realised just how tired she was until she found herself standing in the darkened doorway of the small hospital ward they'd set up. It was a familiar path, one she'd tread twice each day, and once again each night for the last few weeks, up until the day before, at least. It seemed that, deprived of conscious direction, her feet brought her back here, despite the fact that he no longer needed to be checked on. Moonlight filtered in through the few lead glass windows, bathing the room's only occupant in its white-blue glow.

He really was rather disarming when he was asleep. Sandy, tousled hair that looked so soft and made Hermione's fingers itch to straighten it. She was rather irritated by the perfectly thick lashes that rested against his checks, finding it completely unfair that they should be wasted on a boy, and she vowed yet again to find the time to ask Ginny for some mascara and a little instruction on how to use it when this was all over.

Not that it would make a difference if his eyes were to open, but it was nice to see them without the heavy bandages that had been there for months, to know that all the late nights had finally provided a way to stop the curse from spreading.

She just wished, wearily, that it had been soon enough to save his vision.

"Yeh should be in bed already, girl." His eyelashes never even fluttered as he scolded her.

"I was. It's my turn for rounds."

"Liar."

Hermione snorted softly. "And you should be asleep."

"I am – see? Eyes closed an' everything." His lips twitched. "I knew yeh'd be by tonight – me charm's starting t' wear yeh down."

She laughed. It was comfortable, talking with Seamus in the stillness of the hour. Faintly, she heard a door open on the floor below, followed by the sleepy shuffle of someone on their way to the lavatory; it sounded dishearteningly far away to her at the present moment. Fleetingly, she debated whether she could simply fall asleep where she stood, cheek pressed against the warm wood of the doorframe, and forced herself to straighten.

"Go to bed," he ordered gently. "Ah'm fine, thanks t' you'n Lupin."

"And Snape," she reminded firmly.

Seamus stubbornly ignored her – something Gryffindor inside him wouldn't permit him to acknowledge the caustic potions master, apparently, and instead he leered playfully, "'m even told that I should be back in me own bed in a day or two, if nothing goes wrong. Will yeh still come and check on me in the middle of the night then?"

"Good night, Seamus," she said, rather primly, and dragged herself from her wooden support.

"G'night girl. Ye'll give in ta me charms one o' these days."

-..-

The small library was, in actuality, nothing more than a very large study, with numerous windows and wall to wall, gently mouldering, bookshelves. It was deserted this time of the morning; a fact for which Hermione was grateful, as there would be no one else to witness this highly embarrassing conversation Ginny had seen fit to inflict upon her.

"Your first is one you never forget," she said, industriously beating the curtains with a few flicks of her wand, evicting both dust and a couple of highly disoriented Doxies missed by Molly's extermination party the day before. "No matter what the experience, it's the one that stays with you, that is compared with, and colours every other man who comes after."

"Ginny!"

"Well, it's true, you know. And honestly, Hermione, you should take the opportunity while there is one. Anything can happen tomorrow, and right now you should just be celebrating that you're alive."

"By going off and having meaningless sex, you mean?" Hermione asked, dryly.

"No – by admitting you're alive by doing something that will make you feel it down to your fingertips. Yes, the world is horrible right now, but honestly, we have to find some good in it too, even if we have to make our own. Think about it, alright? Just, don't let yourself put everything in life on hold because of what's happening. You can't spare the time to worry about someone else right now; none of us really can, but for Merlin's sake - find time to connect with another human being, even if only for one night."

Obviously feeling her work was done, she gave Hermione one last meaningful look, and left. Hermione sighed, exasperated with the other girl's kindly-meant intrusion. Lost deep in her own thoughts even after Ginny left, she found her industrious cataloguing slowing, then gradually stopping altogether before a carefully gruff voice behind her made her squeak in surprise.

"I heard the two of yese talkin'. Don' tell me ye haven't been swept off'n yer feet by some pretty bloke yet? What's wrong with these bastards?"

He was leaning against the doorway – and managing to do it entirely too well for one who couldn't see, she thought crossly, trying to collect her scattered wits, and realising her normally invaluable glare was completely useless against him.

"What are you doing here, Seamus?" He couldn't get here, not on his own, which meant—

"The portraits are dead helpful, when yeh ask. Reckon I can get anywhere in the place I want, now'as I've been given the go ahead." A smiled flashed quickly across his face, but he still looked altogether strange to her eyes; tense, maybe.

She relaxed fractionally. It was nice to know Ginny hadn't gone quite_ that_ far in her quest for ensuring her friend's personal happiness.

Quickly shoving the last few books back on whatever available spaces on the shelves she could find, and knowing full well she'd be cursing when next she needed them, Hermione tried to ignore the heavy weight of embarrassed quiet hanging over them.

"Ginny mentioned I might try coming down," he admitted finally. "Thought I might like being somewhere other than the hospital ward, or me own room, she said. I can feel the sun through the windows. And I knew yeh'd likely be around, at some point."

She stared at him, shifting her weight, uncertain how to handle this. It had been neatly set up, but then she would expect nothing less from Ginevra Weasley. _Honestly, what had that girl been thinking?_

Seamus's eyes flowed around the room, trying to settle on her, but he made no move to enter. "Let me do this, Hermione," he said quietly. "Let me be the one who you look back on with tha' fond smile." He tilted his head slightly, gazing at her with his unseeing eyes, and his lips quirked into a sly and cocky grin as he boasted playfully; the look pure sin and Irish charm, even if he couldn't know it anymore. "Besides, I reckon I can stand to be compared to whoever the lucky bastard is who comes after."

The feeling was comfortable, and friendly even, and she couldn't help but laugh, at the absolute ridiculousness of the situation.

Seamus gave a rueful grin, clearly not offended, though perhaps in the way his shoulders seemed drawn in, almost protectively, Hermione thought something of his manner might be forced; may have been for a while now, without her noticing. "Yeh know, girl, you really aren't helping my confidence here."

She lost the thought when he grabbed her hand, just as she was leaving.

"I'll be here for you, Hermione; if you let me."

-..-

None of them thought about tomorrow; as if everything simply ended at the end of each day, and thoughts of what might come after were simply too hard – too hurtful, sometimes, to think about.

For over a fortnight she pushed the conversation from her mind, after giving Ginny a rather large scolding - but the last thirty hours had been beyond imagining, and Hermione found herself outside his door.

There had been a raid, and everything seemed to have gone horribly wrong. Three team members had been badly injured, and they had only just gotten Neville's condition stabilized, though even now, something in Professor Snape's eyes didn't look entirely sanguine.

This was her life. Running and hiding, and always searching for the next thing that might take Voldemort down; where were the carefree friendships, and dreams of the future, and first kisses that were supposed to be so much a part of growing up?

Hermione worried she didn't dream of anything anymore.

She wasn't sure what she would do if he'd forgotten; if his expression turned embarrassed or pitying, and she wasn't really sure how to ask. But the minute she walked in, she knew he had been serious.

He sat up at her entrance, looking instinctively towards the soft sound of the door closing, and she didn't know how, but his expression told her he knew it was her.

"Seamus—" But she stopped, unsure how to say what she was feeling.

"Shhhh." He shook his head. "Just come sit by me."

She crossed the room to him, and stopped, hesitating again. He heard the faint _chink_ the bottle made against the nightstand when she set it down, and he reached for it curiously, trailing deft fingers over the distinctive_Ogden__'s_ embossing.

"Ouch. Do yeh really need this, then?"

"I had thought it might make things a bit easier." She cursed the anxiousness in her voice that she couldn't quite mask.

"We'll jus' save the whiskey for later, now shall we?"

Still, she hesitated there by the bed, unsure if she could take the decisive step, cross the line that would carry her inexorably closer to something she wasn't entirely sure wasn't a poorly thought-out mistake.

A sharp tug brought her onto the bed with a curse, tumbled into a heap on Seamus's lap.

"Ouff! Yeh weigh more'n I remember, don't yeh?"

Instead of making her horribly embarrassed, as perhaps such a comment should have, his unrepentant grin got him an indignant swat and went a long way to easing some of the tension Hermione was feeling.

Surprisingly strong hands settled her gently, and she felt her perception shift uncomfortably. She had never really thought of Seamus as being strong, tending to think of him in that Harry and Ron sort of way - where it always seemed to catch her off guard whenever she noticed they were now so much taller then she was, and that they really where men more than boys, more often than not. This new perception was of a Seamus who was not a boy at all, and who just might be attractive in a confusing, _masculine_ sort of way, and it left her feeling somewhat lost.

"'m glad yeh came tonight," he said softly, and for once, Hermione could hear the voice of a much less confident boy, the one left in the wake of his injuries. She was momentarily startled to realize his charm and banter were worn like a shield, now.

Still, she didn't know how to respond to that, as she was beginning to wonder if this was possibly a Very Bad Idea … except that his Irish charm was something to hide behind now, and this was something that left a horribly hollow feeling in her chest. Perhaps, and this thought actually seemed to give her some confidence, perhaps this was something they_ both_ needed.

She could hear his heart beating, just below her ear, and he settled his chin on top of her head, and she was startled by how good it felt just being there. His fringe had grown rather long since his accident, making him look even scruffier than usual. The ends were tickling her nose, and when she squirmed, she could feel him grin as he tightened his hold.

"Why don't yeh light a lamp?" he suggested, giving her a gentle push. "Reckon its pretty dark by now."

"But, I mean, you don't—" she stumbled to a halt, cursing herself for her clumsiness when Seamus's return smile was a little crooked; a little sardonic. It didn't suit him, she thought crossly, and was upset by the change.

"This is not something I'm planning to hide, Hermione, or let you, neither. I want yeh to see _me_. I—" he stopped, frustrated, and a little embarrassed, unable to say what he wanted to say. Hermione reached out without thinking to cradle his cheek in her palm. The softness of his skin against her hand was unexpected; she had never really thought of a boy's skin feeling like that against her own.

He turned his head away from her, shifting so she was no longer caressing his face. "I don't intend t' be something yer ashamed of, later, girl. I may not be good for a whole lot right now, but I can be something special for you, just for tonight."

Biting her lip, Hermione contemplated what she was planning on doing there that night. If asked a year ago if she'd be in this situation, she knew she'd never have entertained it for a moment, but there and then, she wondered if maybe it wasn't something she _needed_.

Trembling slightly, and feeling guilty to be thankful he couldn't see it, she reached out to him. His breath caught when her fingers, which were probably cold, slipped hesitantly under his unbuttoned collar, but he made no move to dissuade her. In fact, made no move at all, allowing her curiosity.

It seemed easier than she expected, and she wondered why that was. If asked a year ago if she would be in this situation with Seamus, to be giving her virginity away to a boy with whom she didn't think she'd ever had any more than passing attraction, she couldn't have envisioned it.

In the end, maybe that's why it felt so easy; there were no messy emotions involved, no real threat of hurt ego or misunderstanding. It wasn't about love, but that didn't make it feel wrong. What it _was_ about was comfort and friendship - and that was a kind of love too. Possibly even a stronger one, especially when she realized the lengths to which she'd already been driven by it for the last seven years. The love in friendship was something she understood, and felt comfortable with.

He was breathing hard; the room was suddenly so silent she couldn't help but hear it. Her position beside him was awkward, so she sat up, solving the problem by straddling his legs where she could reach his buttons with less difficulty. She didn't even realize she was still shaking until she felt the warmth of his hands at her hips, steadying her.

His eyes, she realized, still showed so much of what he was feeling. The expression that was not-quite meeting her eyes was raw and vulnerable, and ached in ways she wasn't sure she had names for, but there was tenderness there, too. She smiled, responding instinctively to his need for encouragement, and realised how useless that gesture was to him; he couldn't see her responses, couldn't gauge her willingness beyond what she would say and he could feel.

"Hermione?" he asked tentatively, responding to the fact that her hands had stilled.

Instead of trying to verbalize what's she didn't even know how to feel, she leaned forward, realising as she did so that she hadn't even kissed him yet. Feeling that perhaps they were doing things out of order, she brushed her lips lightly against his; once, twice, three times. His lips were what she'd heard Pavarti gigglingly describe to her sister once as _pouty_, and though she wasn't sure what might have been meant by that, she was sure that they were moist, and heady beneath her own, and that he tasted faintly of something cool, like the heavy peppermints her mom used to give her on Sunday afternoons.

It must have been the signal he'd been waiting for, because his arms coiled round her waist, and _pulled_, and suddenly she was sprawled a lot tighter to his almost-bared chest, and he was kissing back, and it felt _good._

Apparently, whatever else he may or may not have accomplished by it, Seamus Finnigan's flirting was full of teasing promise that he was _very_ capable of fulfilling. She wondered briefly who had helped him perfect his techniques, but gave up, deciding it honestly didn't matter, and she was probably better off not knowing.

Even blind, Seamus definitely seemed to know what he was about, though she supposed belatedly that might make some sense, as kissing was an activity generally done with one's eyes closed. He seemed to be able to compensate for her awkwardness, so that noses and teeth and who-turns-where seemed sorted out without her even really having a chance to worry about it, and his tongue gently traced her lips, coaxing a response and it was not long before she wasn't thinking of much of anything anymore but how incredibly good his mouth felt on hers.

Later, she thinks that he would probably have been proud to know that.

The actions of his mouth and hands were forcing her to re-evaluate the situation, conceding that there were most certainly hormones involved when things she hadn't even really been aware of having, beyond a detached _biological _way, begin to throb and tingle and the atmosphere in the small bedroom shifted to something a lot less friendly. She was startled to realize she actually _moaned_.

He pulled back slightly, grinning a bit smugly as he nipped the skin along her jaw before giving her a touch of space. Instead of feeling worried by his retreat, she was comforted by how easily he knew her, and wasn't disappointed by the fact that the speed with which this was happening was unsettling her somewhat.

His voice was husky when he spoke. "Did yeh know, yeh have the sexiest voice? I don' think I was ever able t' appreciate it before, but it is; low and throaty and always makes me think of bedrooms."

"Too bad when people can actually see the rest of me, the effect seems to get rather ruined." She tried to dismiss his words lightly, not comfortable at all with his compliments, and feeling perhaps that this would be much easier if he wouldn't try to be so caring. It was selfish, but she wasn't sure she could handle caring from someone like him; it was overwhelming, and far too comforting to be comfortable, and something she knew she couldn't let herself get used to under the present circumstances.

Instead, he shifted until he could get up. He finished removing his shirt, casually throwing it behind him. His chest was still strong, and the skin gleamed in the light of the lamp. Fumbling only slightly, he managed to find her shoulder and allowed his fingers to trail down, until he could find the hem of her jumper, and a moment later, it joined his shirt on the floor. He knelt with one knee on the mattress beside her as she lay there, in her denims and her sensible pink cotton bra. She tried not to shiver as his hands closed on her hips, skimming her sides and stomach, leaving no part of her skin untouched. His voice was quite and serious when he spoke. "I see you, Hermione. Don't doubt it for a second."

She did shiver that time, and pushed herself up onto her elbows where she could watch him as he continued touching her.

Seamus's hands were scarred, mostly shiny pink marks, where the skin had only been healed a short while. Her finger moved to trail along one faded line, obviously old.

His lips quirked into a half smile. "Slipped off me broom, first time I tried t' fly higher than me sister."

There were calluses along the inside thumb and first knuckle of his index finger. Calluses caused by endless skirmishes and spell casting. They were beginning to soften somewhat, with the last few months of inactivity, and his fingers twitched slightly under her gentle touch.

When he reached her breasts, she couldn't stop the tiny betraying gasp, when thumbs deftly swept and teased the nipples as his strong hands kneaded her flesh, and her back arched slightly, an involuntary motion that caught her by surprise. It took her a moment to realise she should probably be touching him too, and somehow didn't find this thought as intimidating as she might have.

Her first touch made him hiss, the breath drawn sharply over his teeth, and for a moment she stilled, worried she'd done something wrong, but the tense way he held himself above her, the smell of his skin like honey and wood smoke, worked on some instinct buried deep inside and convinced her to do it again. This time, she managed to fumble the buttons of his trousers until they begin sliding down his hips.

His skin was hot, and his hipbones were sharp under her palms, despite the thin fabric of his boxers between them, and he allowed her to work them down his thighs until she was stopped by his bent knee.

It only took him a moment before they were added to the pile, and he balanced carefully, using his knee to find and place her as he reached for her.

She was curious to note that his head was bent over his hands, the instinct of a sighted man to try and see what he's trying to do as he struggled with the fastening on her denims, and she quelled the instinct to reach down and do it for him. Instead, she lay quietly, being sure to twist her hips just slightly to put the zip beneath his questing fingers.

His hands were rough, in direct contrast to the softness of his hips and chest, and the feel of them as they slowly slid the denim from her legs made the throbbing and tingling flare.

And she lay on his bed, bared to him in a way she was beginning to suspect mere sight couldn't touch; not for _him_, anyway. He reached for the bottle of Ogden's Finest on the table, and had to catch it quickly when his first attempt nearly knocked it to the floor.

"Impressive," she said softly, with real admiration for his quick reflexes before he could even think of apologizing for his clumsiness. He flushed a little, but the discomfort and self-consciousness was only there for a split second, before his expression turned wickedly sinful.

He ran a nail around the neck, breaking the foil, and flicked the cap-ended cork with his thumb to send it falling to the table. He moved carefully, as he came to kneel at her side again, and this time she reached a hand out to touch his leg, helping him find her without having to think about it so much. She was surprised when he settled between her legs, gently forcing her to flex them so that he was cradled in the vee they made, a boyishly charming smile making her smile in return, even as she watched him curiously.

She wasn't sure what to expect as he brought the bottle above her, and she was a little nervous, as she'd read a lot more than she was comfortable experimenting with on her first try, but this train of thought was abruptly quieted as he shocked her when he tipped the bottle to pour over her stomach. It was cool against her damp skin; running off the roundness of her tummy and soaking the bed-clothes on either side, the whiskey still managed to gather on her skin, pooling in her navel and the slight hollow under her ribs. Some of the alcohol ran down between her legs, and the tingling burn of the spirits against the sensitive flesh made her strangely aware of her arousal.

"Told yeh we'd save it for later."

She didn't have a chance to respond before his mouth was on her again, but this time his tongue was doing wicked things to her skin, flicking into her navel, trailing along the sensitive line of her abdomen, and she gave up all attempts to hold back the sounds that were rising in her chest.

His tongue was like velvet, a roughness against her skin that made her want to plead for more. His ridiculously long eyelashes brushed her ribs as he explored her, and she realised he was using the trail of Firewhiskey to map the planes of her body in his mind. Later, he allowed her to return the favour, and the burning warmth of the alcohol against the muskiness of his skin caused an unexpectedly sharp throb of awareness.

When it happened, it was with a sharp thrust and a primitive, rumbling groan that worked on every nerve and instinct she had and made her tighten her hold on him. There was pain, but later she's almost embarrassed by the fact that it felt good, a sharp burning blossom that was like a pinch during a dream; it told her she was alive, and suddenly she knew what Ginny had been trying to tell her.

She had no nails, preferring to keep them cut sensibly short, but her fingers dug into his shoulders and back for the sheer pleasure of feeling the skin dimple under the pressure, and the muscles bunching and stretching deeply beneath them. The discomfort she must have been causing him only seemed to drive him on, his lips rarely leaving her skin as he tasted her sweat and even the few tears as she lost herself in an emotional release of _right now,_ his litany of Gaelic mingling with her cries and his moans in painful beauty.

Looking back, she always wondered what it was he'd said to her, but deep down, she was glad she didn't know, because it would be painful, too, in a world where there was no tomorrow to think about.

-..-

Dawn's light was beginning to filter through the rather threadbare curtains, lightening everything just enough to bathe it in deep shadows as Hermione prepared to slip from the room. She wasn't trying to avoid him; Seamus was lying awake on the bed, his quiet breathing familiar and soothing. Somehow, his presence almost seemed to fill the room behind her, and it was a nice feeling, one she wished she could hold onto a while longer.

She gathered her still whiskey soaked bra, shoving it into her pocket with a wrinkled nose, and turned back, ready to say, well, something. Goodbye? Goodnight? Thank you? She wasn't sure.

"Promise me something?" His voice came out of the semi-darkness, and for once, all traces of the playful flirt she'd known for eight years were absent.

"Seamus—" she hesitated, uncertain.

But he continued as if he hadn't heard, sparing them both, and giving her a strange sort of permission, too. "When this is all over, and you do what it is you need to do with Harry an' Ron, promise me I'll hear from yeh – that you'll see me, even, well, even if just to tell me what a wonderful bloke ye've found, and how much he makes you happy."

It was the last she ever heard from him on the subject; a silent accord they shared in quiet moments, or times when he would touch her hand just _so_. They bantered, they laughed, and even joked occasionally, but it was like a shuffled deck – even back together, nothing was in exactly the same place as before. But still, it didn't feel awkward, either, and occasionally she would catch him starting sightlessly, with that same achingly hard-to-meet gaze that showed things right down to his soul.

Three weeks later, and she left, just as he had known she would, travelling with Ron and Harry into a final confrontation that they had been building towards since they'd met so many years ago. She was the strong one, the practical one, keeping her boys' spirits up, and refusing to let them be defeated. They relied on her, in a way they always had, and she felt almost comfortable again, doing what she'd always known she'd do since Harry had first told them of Professor Quirrell's demise. All the rest was just becoming grown-up enough to get there. She was one of three again, and it was like being back in her own skin.

But at night, when she finally fell into her bedroll exhausted, she would dream, without sight or colour; but remembering the feel of his skin against hers, the way the Firewhiskey lingered on his tongue as he kissed her, and his words lingered in the air, shimmering in her memory, just as she fell asleep…

- End -

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**Author's Note:**

I struggled longer with this story than with any other one-shot I've ever written; I just ached when I wrote it, and I could only write this for short periods -which all sounds very sappy and incredibly silly, but there you go. Seamus is just trying so hard to prove something, both to himself and to Hermione, and he's vulnerable and still struggling, and the whole vision of him trying to be so tender, while having to relearn everything himself was just something that got to me. I don't know, it's not my normal milieu, but it was something I had to write, because once I had the idea, it just wouldn't let me alone. Hopefully, I've managed to put even a bit of the emotion in my head onto the page, and I'll just cross my fingers that it came out right, but I think, maybe, it might have.

Thanks go to everyone who's read, or is reading anything of mine; I'm incredibly grateful for all your feedback, con-crit and comments_ -hugs readers- _And I promise, back to Consequentially Yours now.

Love from,

**Ny**(ruserra)


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